


a pair of dull scissors (my sweetest downfall)

by ferneater



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, Tavern in the Mists, Underage Character(s), Wranduin - Freeform, condemnably self-indulgent prose, slightly nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferneater/pseuds/ferneater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had you been stronger, wiser and older, perhaps you could have said no; dismissed him with a determined wave of your hand. But you doubt that. That is not how it is between you two.</p><p>The loose strands of hair at your feet are just another testament to that.</p><p>Wrathion asks Anduin to cut his hair. Set in MoP in the Tavern, near the end of Anduin's recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a pair of dull scissors (my sweetest downfall)

**Author's Note:**

> Made possible by my beta ~~jesus~~ queen Tomtomi - all my love

**:::**

 

He towers over you and your unfinished game. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time he moved, but he hasn't said a word, of course he hasn't. You feel a strange weariness, a sense of déjà vu, you keep your blue eyes on his, you will not be his prey.

This is one of his best angles, you think absently. He comes closer than you think people your age should - yours, his, yours, evident ages, evident maturity. The candlelight is kind on him. You just look pale, pale and brittle, the White Pawn. You angle yourself toward him, subconsciously. You can practically feel your pupils dilate: it is what it is. You are used to this. You are tired of it.

"Have I ever expressed my fondness for that particular length of hair you wear?" he drawls, in his way that a feebler mind might consider flirtatious, and you say nothing, because he has yet to reach out his hand - there - and twirl a lock of your golden hair around his talon-like fingers, casually brush your cheekbone. You wait for the heat of his touch, you wait for it to pass, you wait for the heat in your gut to dissipate.

"I don't think I've received that _particular_ compliment from you yet."

His smile is predatory. The curve of his jaw magnificent, his cheekbones chiseled, his eyes cloaked. He surveys you, you sit still, he plays with your hair and smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, _tsk_.

"I would like you to cut my hair, Prince Anduin," he says softly, draws the words out slowly. He takes your face in his hands, gently, gently, like you would not expect - would not have expected; you are used to this now - cups your jaw, adjusts. You sit back, your eyes half lidded, a shadow of a smile on your lips. You watch him watching you. This is what you do, you play games, and not all of them have a name. You have played games all your life, but have already lost here.

Two years. Two years of age and he has got you tied down with a touch, your face afire where your skin meets his.

He frowns, satisfied with the posture of your head, takes your bangs in a pincer hold right above your cheekbones, measuring. Looking at him is like looking at the sun, unbearable. You close your eyes, _two can play this game_ , you think.

"I regret to inform you I possess no proficiency at such a task," you tell him mock-solemnly, honestly. This is the dance you dance, and you dare not open your eyes; your cards are all there, all your aces for him to see.

Wrathion drops his hands to his sides dramatically enough for you to hear the motion. _Considerate_ , you think, and the thought stretches your mouth another half-inch. You wonder if you look as weary as you are, if he knows your proverbial dancing feet are as used up as your physical ones. If he knows this is one of the rare things that make the dull chronic ache subside momentarily.

"Oh, Prince," he sighs. He walks away from you, but his voice carries: "As ever, you underestimate your skills."

You open your eyes to survey him across the room by the desk. You do this when he does not see: you let your eyes linger, hungrily like no prince should ever be caught staring. His pose dramatically confident every moment of every day, his dark bare calves all muscle and sinew, his lanky form draped in casual silk, revealing and concealing. It is your favourite thing to see him in; you figure he knows. He turns around, you close your eyes but not so fast he cannot see. Your smile blossoms into a smirk, you chide yourself.

He makes his usual beeline to you, sets the scissors on the table, walks his courtesan's walk to your backside and angles your chair away from the table. You open your eyes and bat the blonde lashes twice just the way he likes it, you find him where you expected him to be, in front of you, above you.

"A haircut I can understand," you begin, lean forward a bit, try not to wince in pain, he makes you try like this, "but mid-Jihui? From me? I would call you mad but..."

You let your voice fizzle out; shrug as understatedly as you can. His grin morphs from predatory to...something short of warmth, amusement. He demands, you joke, he smiles, you give, give, give, sometimes you give without asking, anything for a flash of those fangs.

"I realized there was nothing more I wanted right in this moment than to have my hair cut by His Highness the Prince of Stormwind, child of Light, the brightest jewel of Pandaria, young _Anduin Wrynn_."

He gestures wildly with his hands, prone to rambling; bows dramatically in a swish of silk, and you wonder how his turban stays on. He says your name as though it was one of the treasures he so likes to speak of, as though you were a new ripe plot twist in one of the stories he weaves, a decisive victory in one of his wars. And you blush, despite yourself you blush.

"Did it occur to you that you may not like the end result?" you offer wryly, dryly.

"Never once."

His gaze is so intense it may be boring holes into you.

You open your mouth to speak, to retort, but he interrupts with a dismissive, confident flick of his fingers.

"I have reason to believe in this case...the means justify the ends."

And it is so absurd you actually laugh, the sounds of it bouncing of the walls in a melodic cascade. That he would say that. That you had already imagined your fingers in his hair, in his scalp, wondered what sounds you could draw out of him, all in the name of playing barbershop.

Contrary to your public image you are no more innocent than the common street urchin, you think, and you regret nothing. This place has freed you, at a price. Your pain is replaced by a fever inside your bones, an itch you cannot scratch. You like that better; you think you might like it even if you were pain-free.

By the time you open your eyes, in the few seconds it has taken you, he has unclipped his turban and stares you down with the dirtiest pair of eyes you have seen in your short hurricane life, and it may not be much but it is _everything_ to you. You are vaguely aware of your broken, aching hands gripping onto the sides of the chair where they had rested, of your lips parting in violent awe. You are fully aware of: his eyes on your face, your hands, your mouth; his body poised like an athlete's; his deft fingers peeling off his crown, muscled arms working in mesmerizing turns around his head.

Your yes is unspoken and deafeningly loud.

You quell your panic - this is no place for it now. You swallow, you blink, but you take the invitation. Perhaps your naked hunger is new to him from the way he arches an eyebrow, never hesitating. You lean back in slow motion.

You know what happens in the pleasure houses of Stormwind - of every part of the world. You can't help but think this is not dissimilar, what you two are doing.

He has ways to surprise you still, after these weeks, he has ways to build you up and throw you right back at his feet again.

His hair is black - you have known this - and long, and curly and _beautiful_ \- you have never even suspected. It falls past his shoulders in awkward, gorgeous, messy curls, it's winding and wild and the way it catches the light makes it hard to _breathe_. The turban hits the floor with a soft thud, he stands and breathes and his very existence, only his existence, sets a heavy weight on your heart. You can only hope it won't fail you now.

"Cat caught your tongue, Prince?" he says in a whisper, and your head is swimming with attraction, affection, and you respond with frustration; your brows draw in, your breath catches. You grind your teeth together, just like your father does: hard.

"Sit down, please," you say and it comes out like a snarl and it pleases him. You think the show alone that he makes of taking one and a half steps to you will kill you prematurely, but that is before he has touched you, placed his perpetually hot hands on your knees and parted them, his eyes flashing crimson with a hunger so very far outside the shaky borders of friendship you have drawn together. All you see is him, him, him, wanting you, his hands a little ways up your thigh and then, gone. He sits down with his back to you, the insides of your thighs catching on his slender shoulders. Between your skins: mageweave, pandaren silk; borders of friendship, evaporating in your mind like morning dew.

He knows better than to rush you, so he sits. You breathe, you can smell him, you breathe him in.

You have never been visibly aroused in his presence before. _One learns to swallow one's embarrassment, light a candle on the porch for hope._ Your mind comes up with the most ridiculous of similes under duress, fills up with want and clutter so you do the most natural thing, you bury your porcelain prince's hand in his hair, and your mind goes blank like new parchment. It hasn't taken you much to foresee the way he would push back, lean against you palm like a docile animal. You are shattering walls left and right, you think, and the fear is intoxicating.

You think of the proverbial wrecking ball he is guiding, wonder if you are perhaps the only one who has spent any time considering the consequences. You let them go. You slide another hand into his mane - his hair is like the silk he wears, residually warm to your touch. You remember sometimes with a start - surprise mingled with dread - that he is no mortal, more god than man, but here you are, Prince Anduin Wrynn, a tiny speck of dust, and this _creature_ , a child of the titans - he rests his beautiful head in your lap, in your hands because he wants to, because maybe he wants you.

He sits there also because you want him to. Because you want him. _Lean back a little_ , you dare him in your mind, cheeks burning, _and you will know just how much. Break this quaint coexistence._

You move your hands without thinking, massage his scalp with slow movements. You think you hear a purr, you think your heart may burst out of your chest, make a bloody mess of his immaculate rooms. You don't remember the scissors or the conversation; they were never the point, just the prelude, the little pretense, the warm up to the greatest waltz of the century. You run your greedy hands through his hair, gather the curls - your knuckles never leave the small of his neck while you braid the locks - and while you have never been anyone's lover, you work with the subtle skill of one who has touched before with the intention to explore. He gasps and sighs and rumbles, his head tilted back and you think feverishly of how he must look: dark eyelids closed and lashes fluttering, sharp teeth exposed, biting down on that lip; that perfect angle of that perfect jawline.

The braid rests elegantly between his shoulder blades, your hand rests on his clavicle, skin on skin, the other circles his neck with the possessiveness of a scorned lover.

You, Anduin Wrynn, have always been strong in your faith. So you take a leap.

You move with certainty, ignore the flashes of pain in your bones as you bend over, you let the euphoria flood in when you kiss his temple.

_If we are going to ruin this, let the blame fall on both of us._

Your lips linger, you press your left temple against his right, you breathe hard, winded, fluttering gasps, pain-free. He moves as fast as you've come to expect of him but too fast for your shaken senses to capture before he's turned, kneeling on the floor with his forehead against yours, and you realize this is, in fact, his best angle. His gaze is as clouded as yours, starving and wild, unblinking and steadfast, he wants to see what he does to you when he takes your face in his hands and fixes your angle, takes your lower lip between his teeth, takes and takes and takes, kisses you breathless, kisses your knees weak, kisses you silly. Your hands are on his neck, on his heart, _take me in here, keep me in here, let me in here, you are in mine, you are, you are_.

**:::**

You cut his hair that night, black tufts raining on his bare back, his cheek pressed to your naked thigh; his hair still twists itself into curls right above his shoulders too, still long enough to braid.

 

**:::**

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by  Regina Spektor - Samson 
> 
> This has been my most unabashedly self-indulgent, pretentious, faux-artsy piece of writing to date, but the fandom is starving and my muse has delivered - hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> hmu on tumblr - superfiends | kelpfarm


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